In Death's Shadow

by Stephen Davidson

  The attending physician had grudgingly given permission, due to the crisis. Still, there would be no talking. The tube going into the man’s mouth would prevent audible conversation. The most Rendon could hope for was that the patient would be lucid enough to nod his head. It had been too long since Rendon had worked an ICU for him to count on being able to read lips. This was too important to take the risk of miscommunication.

  Taking another look at the flaccid body, Rendon wasn’t sure that he hadn’t wasted his time. The man obviously had been heavily sedated. Taking care of that problem took another round with the nurse and a fifteen-minute wait for the attending physician to order an antagonist for the sedative. The nurse injected it into the IV. In moments, the man’s eyes opened. There seemed to be a slight spark of intelligence left behind the dullness. The nurse seemed content at this and went to care for a patient in an adjacent room.

  Rendon smiled. “I’m Dr. Rendon. I’m with the Centers for Disease Control. If you can understand me, please nod your head once.”

  The man’s head dipped slightly. Rendon felt a little tension melt from his shoulders. He might succeed at this. The patient was a muscular, well-toned-looking man in his midthirties. His short-cropped hair was blond.

  “Mr. McConnal, we really need your help,” Rendon said. “The virus that infected you and caused your heart problems may be attacking other persons. We need to have some confirmation of the possible mode of transmission…uh, the way that you got the virus. Do you understand?”

  The man stared at Rendon.

  “Uh, nod if you understand.”

  The man nodded.

  “The trouble is that this is somewhat touchy, you understand. What I need to tell you is that anything you answer to me will be held in strict medical confidence and will be protected to the fullest degree possible by the CDC. I know that you have an excellent position with Belton and Belton Advertising. We will not be releasing anything that you say to them or anybody else.”

  Rendon looked over at the monitors behind the man. The heart rate had sped up just a little. This was starting to be a problem. He pulled the list of names out of his pocket and unfolded it. The athlete’s name had been on it, as had this man’s. Hopefully, Rendon could get the man to verify who’d attended the party, but first he needed more basic questions answered—answers that could set the tone of the CDC’s entire response.

  “Did you go to a party at Elaine Gaines’s apartment recently? Just nod once if you did.”

  The man stared, his pupils dilating.

  “Please, Mr. McConnal, we need your help. Other people’s lives could be saved. This is important, and we will keep it confidential, as I described.” Rendon forced himself to sit back in the chair and relax the muscles in his face. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. The man could confirm or help to confirm the current hypotheses. They needed that confirmation before mobilizing their task force. A leak to the media on an unconfirmed guess would be devastating.

  The man lay there and stared at the wall. Rendon force a smile to his face. He needed the answers. After a moment, the man nodded, his head barely moving.

  Rendon sighed with relief. “There’s really only two more questions, and it is of the utmost importance that you answer them honestly. Did you take some of the cocaine when you were at Gaines’s party?”

  Another hesitation, then another nod, yes.

  “Did other people?”

  Again the head went up and down. The heart rate continued to climb. Worse yet, a few irregular beats occurred, about one every other screen sweep. The alarm sounded. McConnal started to make choking noises, his eyes widening even further.

  Rendon decided he’d better back off and be satisfied with what he’d gotten, or he’d never get in to see the man again. The nurse hurried into the room, scowling as she saw the set, anxious expression on the face of the patient.

  “Thank you, Mr. McConnal,” Rendon said and stood. “Please relax. I’m not going to ask any more questions. You’ve been a big help, and you may have saved some lives. Please feel comfortable and reassured that this information will go nowhere. We just need to get to those people and warn them, check them for symptoms. It’s possible because of your help we may be able to prevent a death. Thank you, again.”

  With quick, smooth motions, the nurse administered another drug into the IV. The man nodded again. In moments, his eyelids drooped. The choking stopped.

  Rendon smiled, his broadest, most reassuring smile. He left the nurse firmly pointing the direction to the exit. It didn’t matter. They’d found it. Or, he lectured himself, the hypotheses had another leg to stand on. Gaines had given parties for people on her list, and she’d served some or all of them the drug cocaine. The parties had probably been spaced at least several days apart, which explained, at least in part, why the deaths and now morbidity came in clumps. With this information, they could with confidence start contacting everyone on the list and ask them to be screened by their doctor immediately. Shortly after that, the CDC would send someone to interview each individual.

  Having six teams would end up a blessing. He shook his head. He still couldn’t believe the resources thrown at this. Six teams! Sometimes being in the spotlight could turn out to be for the good. He hurried to the phones down in the lobby. He would call Cougher right away. In a moment, his pace had increased to a fast trot, and then he was skipping down the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.

  Seventeen

  Ree’s consciousness returned in tenuous lumps, fading in and out between dream world and reality. For a long while, she didn’t know which was which. She suffered a dull, slow throbbing headache. The first she was really aware found her with a hand hooked under her arm, holding her tight, half walking, half dragging her along. Harry, she decided. It was dark. She couldn’t remember where they were. She shook her head, trying to clear it.

  She opened her eyes. It was still dark. They kept walking. She tried to move her hands. She jerked at them. They were tied behind her. Memories of terror flooded her mind. She tried to scream. It came out a muffled sound. Cloth stretched open her mouth. She was grasped firmly, held still for a moment, and then she was pulled forward again.

  She fought the hysteria, breathed deeply. She was not a small child anymore. This was not Europe. These were not Arab terrorists that had her.

  Where was she? Who was pulling her along? She dug in her heels, braced back, tried to stop moving, and was jerked forward anyway. Another set of hands grabbed her from the left side. Her feet scraped along the floor as she was dragged.

  What had happened? Her head felt full of cotton. She remembered making love to Harry, the night, the sweetest of mornings…then what? She’d been in a bath. She tried to scream again as fragments of memory returned.

  Men had taken her. Why? Who? She couldn’t even remember what they looked like. Dim features of fading faces were all she could grasp. She couldn’t picture them distinctly.

  She tried to struggle from their grasps again, but what little energy she had was spent. She was too weak to do anything but squirm. Her muscles felt loose, powerless.

  They stopped. A door was opened. They dragged her and then suddenly shoved her forward. Tensed for pain, she gasped as she hit her head on something hard. Her body collapsed onto a soft surface. She rolled into something hard. It was a wall. She was on a bed. The door closed behind her.

  The air smelled of sawdust. It felt cool. She wiggled her hands trying to loosen the bonds on her wrists. It felt like tape, hurting when she tried to pull loose. It was minutes later when she heard footsteps outside her door. She rolled back to the wall. The door opened. The footsteps came closer, heavy sounding, a male’s boots against a concrete floor.

  A man spoke. The voice was strange, harsh, familiar. It echoed in her mind, took a moment for the sound, the particular inflection, to register. She screamed and jerked forwar
d, her body filled with hatred. She had heard that voice; the sound, burned into her mind. It went with a white face that had looked in a doorway right before the music had gone on in her parents’ room. Her terror and anger merged, overcoming her mind. She thrashed against her bonds and was grabbed, thrown backward, pinned against the wall. A hand grasped the collar of her tunic. She could feel the back of the fingers against her neck. She tried to flinch away but couldn’t move. Almost choking her, they ripped the tunic back and down. Cold air struck her. Naked from the waist up, she flailed back and forth, soundlessly screaming into the cloth that bound her mouth. Her horror grew. Every muscle in her body went rigid with fear. Her heart pounded as she finally froze, overcome by her terror, a terror made of memories that burned the present into a horror she couldn’t withstand.

  Other hands grabbed her, held her rigid body in place. There was another sting in her arm. She fought to stay awake but couldn’t. Suddenly disembodied voices came at her as if out of her dreams. She heard herself talking.

  Harry had appeared; she felt she knew that. He must have gotten rid of the terrorists. Or was it her father? She was telling him everything. Her father. He kept asking questions. He had to know the answers. It was important. Urgent. Her mouth was dry. She kept talking. Had to tell everything.

  Who were the terrorists? Islamic…American…Who? Where were they? When would they strike again? She didn’t know. The questions kept repeating. She wished she knew.

  Darkness shrouded the interstate. A deep gray fog turned headlight beams into tiny white crystal balls laden with light and little else. Harry drove leaning forward as if he could see better closer to the windshield. The defroster poured hot, dry air into his face. He rubbed his nose. It itched and burned. The ache had not left his stomach.

  The fog started rolling in shortly after dark. He’d passed the Dublin exit driving seventy-five, but it was now so dense it was hard to see the signs to tell how close he was to Macon. Fifteen minutes, he guessed. The road had been deserted.

  Behind him in the murky gray, he saw the powerful beams of another car approaching. The light grew rapidly. The car slowed down behind him instead of pulling around. Bastards. The beams shining against his windshield and the fog ahead made it harder to see. He cursed and let off of the gas. The other car did not pull around him but inched even closer.

  He cursed again. Damn drivers followed too close, so they could drive behind your rear lights. Idiots.

  The light blinded him momentarily. The Chevy lurched forward. His head jerked back against the headrest. He’d been rammed.

  Again. The crash was louder. The force tossed him against the seat. The Chevy swerved toward the emergency lane. He felt it cross with a bump. He swung the wheel, floored the gas. The car slewed sideways and then straightened as he turned into the slide. Mist whipped around in front of him. The headlights still shone brilliant in his rearview mirror. He changed lanes to the left, but the car behind him pulled up parallel to him in the right lane, keeping pace with him as he accelerated faster into the unyielding fog.

  He glanced across at the other vehicle. The driver held a gun pointed at Harry. The man waved the gun.

  Harry slammed the brakes, and the Chevy started to slide. The other vehicle continued in pace as if Harry had done nothing at all. He stared at the gun. The back side window exploded. A piece of glass hit Harry in the cheek and stung. He touched his hand to his cheek, pulled it away, and saw blood. The gun was still aimed at him. The next shot might be a tire.

  He hit the brakes again and swerved over to the median, slowing and finally stopping. He sat in the car, his body rigid, breath frozen in his chest. His assailant’s car pulled to a stop in front of him and then backed up until the bumpers met. The red lights of the man’s brakes went dark.

  Harry could see the outline of one man in the front seat. The man didn’t move. An immense recreational vehicle pulled up behind Harry’s car. The Chevy lurched as the vehicle’s bumper touched. Harry was trapped. Despite the cold a drop of sweat traced down his forehead.

  Another man in a dark gray raincoat stepped down from the RV, walked over to the Chevy, and motioned Harry to get out. He did and then was ordered to the side of the larger vehicle. A set of doors hissed open, revealing a narrow, dimly lit corridor. At the back, a captain’s chair was pointed away from Harry. Light escaped around the dark leather edges. A man led Harry to a seat that faced the back of the chair. The driver stood beside Harry. There was a wheelchair neatly folded, mounted to the wall. Harry tensed at the sight.

  The chair swiveled to reveal the maniac, a large, dark gun in his hand. It pointed at Harry.

  Rendon rolled the screen forward and sighed. In almost no time, most of the people on Gaines’s list had been contacted. Few of them admitted having used cocaine. Most of them were upper-middle-class people who would lose their jobs if their drug use was known. Many of the phone numbers on the list had been work numbers. Voices had been hushed; conversations, short.

  There had been a few people who could not be reached. One fellow was in Jamaica. Rendon wondered how Jamaica would be as he looked out the window at the dreary Atlanta gray. It looked like rain again. The clouds had formed into an impenetrable gray shield in the sky. He decided he’d go to the Caribbean as soon as this case was wound up. It seemed it would not be too long. They had a living case. Two or three weeks and measurable antibodies would develop. They had a small sample provided by the dead ad exec’s mysterious friend. Perhaps a vaccine could be created, certainly a screening test.

  Maybe a vaccine wouldn’t be needed. There could be no more cases. The whole epidemic would go down in the annals, a little-used chapter in a dusty book: “The Stripper’s Death,” a rare virus that contaminated a small batch of cocaine.

  Hell of a name, Rendon decided.

  All the people that had been contacted had agreed to contact their physicians and ask them, in turn, to call the CDC. Each doctor would be given a protocol to follow. The CDC had even agreed to pay for tests and safe transportation for samples. Nothing like presidential interest for funding.

  Remarkably, in a world where so many had no health insurance, all of these people were covered, and most of them had personal physicians. Each of them had been given instructions about the types of symptoms that could occur and what to do if they did. At the first sign of trouble, the first symptom, steps would be taken. They would call their doctors immediately. Everything was going smoothly.

  Rendon quickly put his feet down at the first sound of the doorknob clicking. Cougher burst into the room. “I just got a call from your Grady surveillance team. Get over there—right now. There’s another probable case. The name is not on Gaines’s list.”

  “Oh shit.” Rendon stared at his phone, scrambled up, and was almost out the door before he got the name and location. Moments later, he hurried across the street to the hospital. The Grady team was his responsibility.

  It was drizzling outside, but he didn’t notice. Inside, the waiting room was lined with people, some of whom looked like they needed the warmth more than the treatment. Rendon ignored them, wiped the dampness from his forehead, and pushed his way into the emergency room.

  The man was on his way to the CCU and in bad shape according to a nurse. Prognosis was poor. His wife was in the waiting room. Rendon took a look at the squalor and decided he’d do better in a quieter, more secluded area. This was important. The man might die, and the wife’s information could be all that was to be had.

  Several phone calls later, Rendon had found a small office he could use down the hall from the ER. The unit manager had rolled her eyes at the request as if Rendon were out of his mind. Most conversations were held in the waiting room or the nearest empty corner.

  The bereaved woman was led in by an orderly. Her eyes were red and puffy. She looked at Rendon suspiciously, her hair hanging like thick strings around a narrow face with a thin red nose and o
verly white complexion.

  “Who are you?” she said, her voice sounding hostile.

  “I’m Dr. Rendon from the CDC. I’d just—”

  “Well, I’ll tell you this: if they let him die, I’m going to sue. They left him out there, and it took forever for the ambulance to get there. Those sons of bitches. If you ain’t rich, you can’t get nothing. Didn’t even call me till it was too late. I’ll show ’em. I got a nephew knows this lawyer…,” she said, her voice high and scratchy.

  “Uh, I’m sorry you don’t feel like you are being treated well. I’m sure that they’re doing—”

  “Like hell they are.” She leaned forward in her seat and spit the words at Rendon. Her arms were thin; her fists, balled tight, ready to fight.

  Rendon sat back in his chair. He lowered his voice. “I just need to know if your husband knew Elaine Gaines.”

  The woman curled her upper lip into a pretense of a snarl. “Never heard of her. Who’s she?”

  “She was an advertising executive here in town,” Rendon replied, remembering his rotation on the psych ward and keeping his voice soft and low. The woman was obviously traumatized into near hysteria.

  “What do you wanna know for?”

  “We’re trying to find out how your husband might have caught the virus that gave—”

  “He ain’t got no virus. It’s that shit him and Joey and the rest of them do. I told him it would get him, and look, now you see. But would he listen? Hell no.”

  “What would it be that he and Joey do…uh, did?” Rendon leaned forward slightly, opened his notebook, and pulled out his gold-plated pen.

  The woman stared at him suspiciously. “Say, you a cop or something?”

  “No. I’m Dr. Rendon from the Centers for Disease Control.” He pulled out his ID and showed it to her. She looked at it and sniffed. “We’re investigating a viral…outbreak that’s hit in Atlanta.”